


bring him back

by devilcrowned



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 10:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17640644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcrowned/pseuds/devilcrowned
Summary: what happens when you bring back the dead? it’s a question that people have been asking since the beginning of time. the way to find the answer is simple– ask someone who’s gone through it.an exploration of resurrection from that scene in volume 6, episode 3.





	bring him back

it’s dark.

the cold is something that he’s grown used to over time, slowly but surely, because it seemed to be one of the things that one had to live and die with and continue existing with even after everything is said and done. he wonders if it would have been different if he had fallen in battle, or of old age. sickness never suited him well, but with the graininess of his head and the constantly pull and plow of his insides that had been going on for what seems to be an eternity, ozma supposes that he’ll just have to deal with it.

the afterlife should have had more accurate propaganda back in the waking world, whatnot with their drab decor of nothing with a side of void. there’s absolutely nothing noteworthy of it to report, unless people found comfort in knowing that when they died there was just an emptiness that would never leave. it’s a space to think, and only think, because he doesn’t even have a body to move around in. he just was. _is._ continues to _**be.**_ ( it’s all the stranger to consider, seeing how he can feel the specific sources of his malignities back when he was alive, but can also distinctly feel the _lack of everything_ along with it. )

so, not only does he have to continue the rest of his life as a ghost ( ??? is he one? or is this all a dream? if he acknowledges that this is just how spirits are, he’ll also have to note his disappointment at how boring it is, compared to his previous conceptions of it. ), he has to deal with the fact that when there’s a nothing, one’s intrinsic senses as a human being has to fill that nothing with something. 

at least, that’s what he thinks. why else would these glowing red eyes be staring back at him like this?

they appeared all of a sudden some day-- or maybe they’ve been there all along. ozma doesn’t have the best grasp of time or memory or anything, seeing how he has nothing to grasp with in the first place. if the soul had a hand, his would have been split into pieces of fingers and palm already, the carpals and muscle separated neatly and spread across all of remnant. such is the fate of everyone that dies, isn’t it? it just sounds a lot more poetic once you get a bard to say it. he gave up that career choice once he found out that he could wield magic in the way he could-- fighting had been natural, and probably the best use of his talents that he could manage. puppets, villains, and grimm had been no match to him-- perhaps that was why he was considered to be so “great”. it would have been nice that intelligence came with his strength.

grimm don’t have souls. yet, somehow, they’re here, before him, masks a stark white against the inken black of nothing, carved with intricate symbols that had, after a time, grown to be associated with fear and bloodshed. he hears a sharp growling, a few more anticipating shrieks. the vacuum is thick with a tension that he had not experienced before, not in his space of reminiscing and regret. ( he misses her. he misses her. he misses her. he’s so sorry. ) pain. anger. smite. sadness. agony and longing. it soaks into the atmosphere like water hitting a dry sponge, and suddenly he is _drowning._

could he scream? no. could he fight back, defend himself? no. could he run away? no. the hatred rips through him like he’s wet tissue paper, muscles and carpals rushing past his being and being sliced anew. was there a color darker than black? he didn’t think so before, but there definitely had to be. what else could he be looking at while it cut and clawed and pulled and tore and bit and sliced and shot and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt--

could he feel pain?

_**yes.** _

it seems to be looking for something that’s already been found, moving and rearranging as ozma feels the worst agony that he has in his entire existence. he could have died a thousand times over before this and still find this to be the worst hell that he had ever experienced. what was happening? does evil never sleep? does it come for you even after you’re gone? he thought that everything was over. he thought that he had nothing left to give after he gave his life. 

( she cried so much, he remembers that well. and after some point, he couldn’t bring himself to smile to reassure her anymore. even the gentle squeeze of his hand couldn’t bring forth anything but pain for the both of them. he hated it so much. what a useless hero he was. ) 

no one cares what he thinks, here. his reputation had left him after illness took it. he hadn’t saved people in so long. maybe the grimm had heard the small sadness in his heart when he was still on hid deathbed, waiting for it to take him away. he didn’t expect to end that way, but maybe someone else did. maybe that’s why as the shreds of something that used to be called ozma drifted in the waters of his own loathing and regret, someone had reached down and picked him up out of the water. it smells of iron and flowers. 

“ **there you are.** “  


so delicate, so soft. the touch is as gentle as a mother’s hand caressing her newborn child, but still, in these moments, ozma cannot bring himself to feel anything but fear. it’s all been put back together. he clenches his fists and stares back at red irises within black sclera as she stares back at him so kindly, so lovingly. the man’s breath catches in his throat and his muscles turn stiff as stone.

he knows that face.

she looks the same as she’s ever been, but changed entirely. never mind the bleached white skin, hair that’s so much paler than he last saw. nails are black like tar and matches with and abyssal hue that he feels should belong to a monster. but it doesn’t. it doesn’t. it never had been, because it was her and she was here and what happened did she die too did he do this to her was she okay what had he done he had already felt like the world ended when he had to acknowledge that he had to leave her behind--

she places her finger to his lips. he can only stare as she gives a smile back to his awful face. 

“ **shh. it’s alright.** “  


it’s okay. it’s okay. it’s okay. the phrase repeats in his mind and wraps around him just as her arms do to him in a tender embrace. she’s crying again, tears soaking into his tunic and reducing her to desperate shaking, the mere sight of his breaking his newly reformed heart to pieces. what could he do, here? the only option in his mind is to fall back into routine, to run his hand over her head and hug her back with his own free arm, his nose buried into the crown of her head as he tries to come to term with that’s happening. 

this isn’t death. this is more than a memory. this is beyond anything of his comprehension. he’s seen the entire world, or, at least he thought he did. now he doesn’t know anything. nothing of death and nothing of life, and nothing of resurrection or love or how to comfort the one person in your life that meant everything to you and more. she smells of the flowers that he used to bring her back when he was healthy and able. there’s something else, too. something that he was familiar with. something like iron. 

_how could you leave me?_

despite the lack of vocalization, ozma can hear the phrase ringing in his ears, startling his head into silence. she doesn’t need to say it. he already knew from the time she had forced him into their bed after a prolonged coughing fit. their love had always been the thing that had kept him going. if only things like that could fight off silly little problems like germs and sickness. something did, though. something brought him back.

there’s a pain in his chest that wasn’t there before. it’s not the snarling, merciless brutality that he experienced what feels to be not even a moment ago. it’s deeper here-- like a seedling, deeply rooting itself into his ribs and beginning to sprout anew. but this is nothing kind like nature, nothing pure like freshly picked flowers. it’s tainted. it’s black. it’s brooding and it’s hell. and it’s growing all over them. he feels a wetness beginning to bloom from the center of his torso. the smell of iron has become so much stronger. the delusion of being able to be in love after death is so much clearer. she’s still crying. he wants to see her face. ozma pulls away, arms moving to gently hold either side of his beloved face, giving a soft hush. everything hurts. but he has to see her. he has to. he needs to see if she’s okay.

_i can’t lose you again._  


but the roots have taken a hold of her, spreading and growing in its corrupted black and unforgiveness, it stains from her heart and moves outward. suddenly, her hair is up, pulled into a bun that reminds ozma of a conqueror that he had encountered long ago, the accessories of kingdoms littered among her locks. her nails are claws now, dragging down his back and creating scars that no monsters could compare to. she’s holding on too tightly. he wants to scream, but all he can do is widen his eyes, part his mouth in a quiet “o” of shock. she holds his scepter with a smile, looking down at him with a kind face that he can’t recognize. red didn’t suit her. 

as she plunges the symbol of heroism through his chest, blood drips from the corners of her eyes onto his face, and the wind rushes past them as they both fall into the unknown. 

dark power crackles around him as he hits the floor, and he can feel the absolute smug satisfaction radiating from somewhere that was greater than him, greater than anything he had ever done with his life. this pain is different. the haze of the void is gone, and is instead replaced with the vague sight of a worried face looming above his. 

blue eyes. blonde hair. soft lips and gently calloused hands. it’s the love of his life right before him, the world of the air around them and _everything_ returned. it’s what he’s wanted to see for all this time. he wouldn’t have agreed to be brought back by anyone else, for anyone else. he thought so, at least.  


because all of a sudden, all he can see is black nails, black eyes, and a black heart. her hands are squeezing at his soul and carving her mark into his back. she can’t lose him again. she _can’t._ not again. he’s the only thing that was good in this godsforsaken world. they couldn’t again. she’d destroy anything that got in the way of her wish, no matter what. even if it was ozma himself, the object of her affection and obsession. it hurts so much. the faces switch back and forth, until it all blends together. 

as his heart beats out of tune, he gasps. one day, there would be no love behind her eyes anymore. one day.

he feels a chain that held the world together snap. 

“ **where am i?** “ he says, not knowing that this would be his last look at this beautiful, messed up world. her arms are around him, but all he can think of is how one day, in a different time with them as different people, those very same hands would be around his neck.  


“ _**what is this?**_  “   


**Author's Note:**

> man, i really miss when he was able to feel emotion so strongly and purely. the gods fucked me up so bad by fucking these two up. can i get a waffle?
> 
> thanks for reading!!


End file.
